


Get the worry fucked out of you

by Prim_the_Amazing



Series: DRIVEN MAD BY LUST [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, Polyamory, Telepathy, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-11-14 12:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18052754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Another terrifying slam, and then the doorknob jerks down and the door tears open, bouncing violently off of the wall at the rebound.A large, hairy dog--no, a wolf--trots inside.“Oh my god,” Simmons says.“Hello,” Locus says.





	Get the worry fucked out of you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aryashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryashi/gifts).



“Do cats hate me now?” Simmons asks one in a long string of questions. 

“Yes, but only the ones who already hate dogs.” Locus doesn’t even look up from his book. The print is very small, and it looks very dense. Simmons thinks it might be some sort of instruction manual. He thought that he was the only one who actually read those. 

“Do  _ dogs _ hate me now?”

“The ones who hate other, bigger, male, or unfamiliar dogs, yes.” 

Simmons has lost track of how many days has passed since Locus bit him and his life took an extremely abrupt and unpredictable turn. Long enough for him to be able to not think about sex for longer than five minutes, at least. So, a few weeks. He’s catching up on some much needed and urgent questioning and not thinking about how Locus isn’t wearing a shirt, and how only yesterday he was _ touching _ that chest with his hands and his  _ mouth.  _

“Can I still eat peanut butter with that chemical that’s deadly for dogs?” 

“Yes.” 

“These rules aren’t consistent!” 

“Yes, they are.” 

“If someone blows a dog whistle, will it hurt my ears?” 

“Probably.”

“Probably?” 

“You could be hard of hearing, I suppose.” 

“I’m not!” 

“Then it will hurt.” Locus turns a page and keeps reading. 

“Can I eat chocolate?” 

  
“Yes.” 

Simmons has been living with Locus in his cottage for a few weeks now, and in that entire time, no one has visited. Locus has serious stockpiles of supplies (including lube). He’s like an apocalypse prepper, fully prepared for society to just not  _ be there _ in the blink of an eye, ready to survive and have regularly shampooed hair throughout the apocalypse. He hasn’t had to leave the cottage (which is good, because Simmons would’ve _ lost his mind) _ and no one’s come here. Simmons hasn’t heard anyone. There is no reason to expect anyone. 

Which is why it gives him a goddamned heart attack when a loud  _ thud  _ comes from the door to the ignored outside world, like someone just slammed their body against it with all of their weight. 

_ “What?” _ he hisses breathlessly at Locus, unable to tear his eyes away from the rattling door. He’s fallen off of the couch. “Who is that? Are we going to be murdered now?” 

There’s a sound like Locus is sniffing at the air, and then the sound of him turning another page. “It’s a friend,” he says dismissively. 

“Why is your _ friend _ knocking your  _ door down!?”  _

“No thumbs.” 

Another terrifying slam, and then the doorknob jerks down and the door tears open, bouncing violently off of the wall at the rebound. 

A large, hairy dog--no, a wolf--trots inside. 

“Oh my god,” Simmons says. 

“Hello,” Locus says. 

The wolf does a low bark without actually opening its maw--a sort of  _ boff _ noise--and walks over the couch, right past Simmons, and hops up onto the place where he’d been sitting just a moment ago. It sniffs at Locus with its tail giving a few lazy wags, and then it presumptuously plops its head down on Locus’ lap. Locus balances his book on the wolf’s head and keeps reading. 

“Locus, there is a wolf inside of your home,” he informs him. There is no way that he hasn’t noticed, but he also isn’t acting like it, so better safe than sorry. 

“Werewolf,” he corrects. 

Simmons looks at the new werewolf. “Why is your friend visiting you while in wolf form?” 

“Why wouldn’t he visit me while in wolf form?” 

“He’s  _ shedding _ on the  _ couch.”  _

Locus gives Simmons a look that somehow perfectly communicates  _ I fucked you on this couch yesterday  _ without actually saying the words. Simmons feels himself start to go red. It’s  _ horrible  _ how much it shows. Unfair. A genetic curse. And Simmons has  _ lycanthropy _ now, so he gets to say that. 

“... You better have lint rollers.” 

“Simmons, you’re going to have to accept that everything you own will be covered in fur from now on.” 

“No!” 

Locus looks like he’s barely restraining an eyeroll, or perhaps a mature sigh of exasperation. The werewolf with his head in Locus’ lap peeks an eye open to glance at Simmons like he’s just noticing Simmons now. Simmons bristles. Coming into (not)  _ his _ cottage without knocking or calling ahead, getting fur everywhere, and lying down on Locus… Not that Simmons has some sort of  _ claim _ on Locus, ha. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. No, this is just… they just had a sex marathon for a few weeks there because Simmons had been driven mad with lust by being turned into a werewolf by Locus, which is a completely normal relationship to have with someone, especially someone who’s basically a stranger. 

Simmons wonders how long Locus’ werewolf friend has known him. Does _ he _ know what Locus’ job is, or if he even has one or is just somehow stealing all of this stuff? What his favorite kind of music is? Whether or not he likes Star Trek? The important stuff, really. 

At least, he reassures himself, even if the werewolf might know more trivia about Locus than Simmons does, he definitely hasn’t had…  _ relations _ with him. 

_ Or has he?  _

Simmons bolts upright and glares at the werewolf with deep suspicion. The werewolf gives him an apathetic look and then flops back down onto Locus’ lap to nap. Simmons scowls at him and then turns to Locus himself. 

“Did you bite him?” he asks, definitely not sounding needy or jealous or anything like that. What a  _ weird _ thing to be jealous about, haha. 

“No.” 

“Then how did you meet?” 

“In the woods.” 

Considering that Locus _ lives  _ in the woods, Simmons doesn’t feel like that this tells him a whole lot. God, getting information out of Locus is like pulling teeth, or surviving a family dinner without making a mortifying scene. 

Simmons has a horrifying thought. “Did  _ he  _ bite  _ you?”  _

The werewolf sneezes and Locus actually looks up from his book. “No,” he says seriously (not that he ever isn’t serious). “The man who bit me is dead.” 

Simmons stares. 

“I killed him,” Locus elaborates. 

“Is there anything _ else _ I should know about !?” bursts out of him. 

“Stay out of the West side of the woods. That’s Kimball’s territory. I wronged her and she wants me dead now. You smell like me, so her pack would tear you apart.” 

“WHAT? WHEN WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT?” 

“When you felt up to leaving the cabin. Or when it organically arose in conversation. Like now.” 

The stupid intruding werewolf’s tail is  _ wagging,  _ amused by the proceedings. Simmons wants to grab it and yank him off the damn couch by it, and barely restrains himself. If Locus weren’t here, he’d do it. 

The werewolf lying in Locus’ lap looks up at Locus for a moment. Locus’ lip twitches ever so slightly. Simmons narrows his eyes at them. 

“What,” he says. “What is this, what’s going on here.” He gestures at them. They’re being  _ weird.  _

“Grif just said something,” Locus says nonchalantly. 

“No, he didn’t.” 

“He did. When you’re in your wolf form, you can communicate with other werewolves without using words.” 

“... Telepathy. You mean telepathy.” Simmons reels.  _ “Werewolves _ have  _ telepathy?  _ How did ‘you can eat peanut butter’ come up and not  _ that?”  _

“You didn’t ask.” Locus shrugs. “And it’s not telepathy. He’s just projecting concepts, memories, and feelings from himself to me in a way that communicates what he wants.” 

“So, telepathy.” 

“Not really.” 

Simmons looks at the werewolf. It looks like its--he’s--asleep now. But for all Simmons knows, he’s having a full conversation with Locus right in front of him, and Simmons doesn’t get to hear it. What are they talking about? Are they talking about _ him?  _ He stiffens at the thought, worriedly glancing back and forth between Locus and Grif. What are they saying about him!?

“... How do you do it?” He  _ needs _ to be able to do this werewolf telepathy thing  _ now.  _

Locus furrows his brow slightly and looks into the distance, in apparent deep thought. Simmons gets a bit distracted looking at him. He looks broody in a handsome way, like a particularly good depiction of Batman. 

“Just concentrate,” he finally says, and Simmons’ inadvertent mooning is swept away by annoyance. Grif sneezes again, so,  _ not  _ asleep, then. 

“Concentrate on  _ what,” _ he says. 

“Talking with your mind.” 

“And how exactly do you concentrate on that?” Simmons is reminded of the time that his lab partner was the blind kid, and he kept putting his foot in his mouth and stuttering and panickedly trying to explain things in stupid ways that could only really be understood by people had sight. The blind kid had seemed half exasperated and half amused at his behalf. He’d been too mortified to resent them for it. 

“Think of… your brain… as a mouth,” Locus says slowly, like he’s pondering his words even as he’s saying them. He nods to himself after a moment, as if deciding that that made perfect sense. 

Simmons just gives him a look, his mouth a flat unimpressed line. 

“You’ll get it eventually,” Locus says. “Everyone does.” 

That was, Simmons decides, _ supremely _ unhelpful. 

 

Grif stays. Grif also  _ never _ leaves his wolf form. He sleeps on the couch. He eats on the floor. He goes outside to do his business in the bushes. He telepathically talks to Locus so Simmons can’t hear what they’re saying. He sheds  _ everywhere.  _

That’s why Simmons is annoyed. Everything was so simple when it was just him and Locus, the two of them the sole inhabitants of the small world known as Locus’ cottage, Simmons slowly feeling out his new life with no haste or pressure or anyone watching and judging him. _ Not  _ because he’s bitter that he still hasn’t figured out the telepathy thing and Grif is  _ flaunting _ it right in front of his face. 

Simmons spends a lot of time glaring at Locus, trying to telepathically communicate with him, feeling a lot like an eight year old trying to use the Force again. All he gets is a migraine for his troubles. 

“I’m going out,” Locus says. “I’ll be back.” 

“What? Where are you going? Why are you leaving? How long will you be gone?” 

“Supplies are low. Hunting for food,” he says, answering only one of his questions. 

“Wai--” he says, but Locus already has the door open, is lunging, leaping, and four paws land on the ground as a terrifyingly large grey wolf barrels away at pants shitting speeds. Simmons watches Locus leave him for the first time since he met him and feels weirdly panicky about it. What if he has a werewolf question while he’s gone? What if something weird or dangerous happens? What if the Kimball person comes and eats him? What if--

Grif knocks into his hip as he calmly trudges past him and uses his muzzle to slowly close the door he’d been staring out of in a blank existential crisis. Simmons looks down at him. Right, he isn’t alone after all. He’s just stuck with this useless intruder who won’t shift into a form that he can actually understand-- 

_ Cold/breeze/wind (uncomfortable) coming inside  _ suddenly bursts inside of his mind.  _ Stopped/shut it out (had to stand up to do it/was so comfy/should’ve closed it yourself dumbass/new pup).  _

Simmons is so distracted by the sudden overwhelming weird thoughts that when he blinks the world back into focus, Grif is already trotting back to his--not fucking his--couch. Simmons whips around to look at him so quickly that he almost falls over, abandonment forgotten. 

Another burst of thoughts, so not his but still inside his head that it’s utterly distracting and fascinating,  _ clumsy of course you are insisting on only using two legs gonna fall on your ass pup (amusement).  _

Simmons  _ gapes.  _

Grif just gives him a slow innocently casual blink from across the room as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. 

That… had been werewolf telepathy. Simmons has been _ contacted through telepathy!  _ Holy shit! That’s so fucking cool! 

He puts a hand to his mouth to cover it, turns partially aside and spends a few moments clearing his throat and regaining his composure. Dignity. It’s important. Especially in front of  _ rude guests _ who are  _ overstaying their welcome.  _

He inhales, and turns back around to Grif, his face a cool, unflustered mask. He is  _ so _ cool and composed. He’s a werewolf himself. There’s no reason for him to get all-- giddy, excited,  _ childish.  _ Telepathy isn’t anything special, it turns out. He can do it himself. Theoretically. 

… Maybe less theoretically, now that he’s got an extremely direct demonstration to draw from. 

He focuses on Grif, who’s watching him with half lidded eyes, looking a few moments away from peacefully drifting asleep. He focuses harder, brow furrowed, clearly visualizing a sentence in his mind's eye. His brain is a mouth, sort of. This is perfectly possible for him to do. He  _ can _ do this. Objectively. (Just like how he  _ could _ ace that test, ask that girl out, remain calm, nail that job interview, say all of the right things to get along with and even impress his relatives. He  _ could _ do it. It is, theoretically, somehow, possible. He just has to try even harder. Dig even deeper.  _ Deeper.  _ Why aren’t you doing it? It’s possible, so if you aren’t doing it then that means that it must be on purpose, must be because you aren’t taking this seriously enough, aren’t thinking enough, trying enough, working hard enough. This is  _ important,  _ idiot. Try harder. More. Come on. Stop stubbornly refusing to succeed--) 

_ Going to think so hard you fry your brains/nosebleed/go cross eyed (mocking) _ says Grif, shattering his concentration. _ Look like you’re holding in a fart, pup.  _

“I was  _ getting it!”  _ he snaps, flushing. 

_ Was not (nowhere close), _ Grif huffs.  _ Have to relax into it. Thoughts flow, aren’t pushed. Like trying to shove water, getting nowhere.  _

That… sounds like real genuine advice. And yet still somehow completely impossible to put into practice. Like  _ just let your mind go blank _ or  _ just stop thinking about it. _ Well meant and apparently completely doable for everyone but him. Simmons can make his body do whatever he tells it to, can make himself do whatever chores or math or organizing that he needs to, force himself to forgo sleep or food in favor of finishing a task faster, but his brain has never fucking listened to him. It’s like trying to make his heart stop beating through sheer force of will; his choices and wants and opinions have nothing to do with it. The idea that its different for other people is a mix of terrifying, depressing, mind boggling, and infuriating. 

“How… do you do that,” he asks, feeling less like he’s demanding for Grif to be reasonable and rational and explain himself better and more like he’s just too stupid to understand basic instructions. 

There’s a  _ weird _ feeling inside of his head, like, like-- 

_ “Don’t poke inside of my mind!”  _ he shrieks, smacking a hand to his forehead like that’ll keep Grif out. Grif sneezes, and Simmons is starting to suspect that that’s his wolf version of laughter. 

_ Don’t get in a snit was just skimming the surface can’t go deeper anyways (not pack, not close enough, not invited, not wanted).  _ Grif doesn’t feel apologetic in the slightest.  _ You’re screwed up too tight and tense, need to go loose and pliant and melty, safe/comfortable/happy (lying in sunshine, belly full, pack in easy reach).  _

Simmons has never felt that emotion in his life, and he knows that for a fact because of the hazy memory of it that he gleans from Grif as he speaks. 

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admits, and hates himself a little bit for it. He hates himself for the fact that he doesn’t know how to do something so stupidly easy as being _ relaxed, _ that he let Grif know instead of taking the secret to his grave, that he cares so much that Grif knows when he’s clearly just some weirdo freeloader who can’t even be bothered to be human, which must be some kind of new low for both of them. 

_ Get the worry fucked out of you then  _ Grif thinks, and there is _ no  _ misinterpreting him because along with the thought comes a vague bundle of associations-- hands firm on his hips, on his hand and knees, or his arm and knees, or bent over something, a sweet ache, a smile on his lips,  _ obscene _ noises and--

Simmons _ screams  _ and throws the nearest object at Grif. It’s a jacket. It flops onto his head and he easily shakes it off onto the floor. 

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU,” he shrieks. 

_ You  _ really  _ need it huh wouldn’t think so the place reeks of so much sex you’d think that you wouldn’t be panting for it again until your next heat.  _

“I don’t-- heat? Heat!? HEAT!?” Werewolves get  _ heats _ which means that  _ he _ gets heats now oh god when is it gonna happen he has to mark this down on his calendar how long is it going to last and how frequently and HOW COULD LOCUS NOT HAVE MENTIONED THIS BEFORE. HOW ARE THERE SO MANY WEREWOLVES RULES AND WHY ARE ALMOST ALL OF THEM ABOUT BEING DRIVEN MAD BY LUST. “Supernatural said  _ nothing _ about that!” 

_ Locus/friend/pack/trusted isn’t very chatty/loud/social (fondness).  _

Simmons hadn’t thought so, but it’s _ really _ starting to sink in. 

_ Can fuck you for him if you want until he comes back (uptight shouty thing look like you could melt pretty though/intrigued/want) _

Simmons feels his eyes bulge. “You--” he chokes. “I’m--!” 

Simmons takes a long moment to regather his composure, which is mostly just aghast indignation at this point. “I’m  _ Locus’--” _ not boyfriend, exactly. It’s not as if they matched on a dating app, had a pleasant conversation online, went out on three dates (talking about themselves at a bar, movie and a dinner, and then something risque like the amusement park or even a movie at one of their apartments), before having slightly tipsy sex, texting each other incessantly, accruing in jokes and stories and moments as they went on more and more dates and had more and more conversations before one of them introduced the other to their friend group or maybe even family if he got along with his and then they were under the label of  _ going steady _ which meant either a devastating breakup or dying in an old home together one day. 

Locus tried to murder him during the full moon and Simmons pepper sprayed him in the face and thought he was dying but instead he had just been turned into a creature of the night apparently and then Locus lead him to his cottage and they had sex for about a month straight, the end. Not exactly a traditional meet cute. Simmons wouldn’t call that a boyfriend. Simmons… has no clue  _ what _ that kind of relationship is called. 

Not that Simmons _ wants _ a boyfriend. That’d be… gay. 

Simmons spends a moment being exasperated at himself. 

_ I know he bit you/claimed you/his/protected/dibs  _ Grif says.  _ But even though he likes to stay in his territory he’s still my pack. And pack  _ shares  _ (don’t be greedy pass it around more for everyone so fun).  _

Simmons’ complexion is doing terrible red things. “I’m not--” a hunk of meat, “--food! You can’t just share your-- your-- the person you have sex with! Like they’re a t-shirt!” 

Grif gives him a blank look, like he’s not quite making sense. 

\--Right, werewolves don’t really care about clothes. Especially, Simmons suspects, werewolves like  _ Grif. _ From what he can tell, being a wolf is his default the same way being a human is Simmons’. He has no idea why he’d want to live like that most of the time, but he’s free to make his own terrible stupid decisions. (Simmons is  _ so _ mature.) 

“Like they’re a… good stick?” he tries. 

_ That’s stupid yes you can _ Grif says.  _ Sharing mating is easy/fun/normal.  _

“No, it’s not! Only hippies on drugs and swingers having a midlife crisis and people who meet up for orgies in warehouses after finding each other on Craigslist do that!” 

Grif only communicates confusion at that. Too many references he isn’t familiar with at once? 

“Only pathetic weirdos do that,” he clarifies, simplifies. 

Grif snorts at him derisively.  _ Raised by some proper snooty bastards weren’t you all holier than thou judgy assholes saying everything fun is bad so they can be good for being boring.  _

Simmons chokes, struggling with the urge to furiously defend the family that he’s cut all ties off with after over two solid decades of Not Getting Along. 

“It _ is  _ weird to share…  _ that.”  _

_ Not for wolves _ Grif says.  _ Are you going to keep acting like a (proper boring dull) human or are you gonna start acting like what you are now (fun feral free wild alive).  _

Simmons twitches. Those words, those split second flashes of sharp teeth and long lolling tongues and paws sprinting over the soft earth as trees blur past and the sensation of pure happy  _ excitement, _ those don’t fit him. No one would describe Simmons as feral or wild, except for maybe in the most negative way possible while he’s mid public meltdown. 

… Could he be that now, though? Now that he’s a werewolf? Is it possible for Simmons to be  _ better  _ in some way? 

“I’m…” Simmons says, and thinks what the hell? Why not? So many answers to that question, but why not just not think at all instead of overthinking it to death, and impulsively crash his way through this issue and just let the consequences fall where they may and panic  _ then? _ Why not just have a bit of unthinking fun for once and make shit happen? If Simmons didn’t do stupid shit without thinking sometimes he’d never get anything done at all, even if what he usually gets done is a few disasters to spiral his life into chaos for a bit. Simmons is abruptly feeling dangerously self destructively _ reckless  _ in a way that he can’t resist. “I’m not going to fuck you while you look like _ that.”  _ He has _ limits.  _

Grif huffs.  _ Human werewolves weird hangups the lot of you (mating!).  _

And then Grif stretches, the way a dog would to work out the kinks in its back, and then he keeps stretching in the way a dog absolutely  _ wouldn’t  _ and Simmons instinctively smacks his hand over his eyes because the things Grif’s skeleton are doing look gross and painful and make him feel squeamish. He wishes he had another hand--scratch that,  _ two  _ more hands--to cover his ears too, because  _ ew.  _

Simmons hesitantly peeks out from between his fingers when the noises stop. 

There is a naked man on the couch. It’s far from the first time that he’s seen a naked man on that couch, but he still freezes and almost swallows his tongue.  _ Why _ can’t clothes come with the transformation against all logic just for the convenience and dignity of it? Like in Animorphs? 

The man raises his hands and stretches like a human would, spine audibly popping. He’s got dark brown skin, a pot belly, long messy black hair that doesn’t look like it’s seen a scissor in over a decade, and a beard. He’s hairy all over, really. Thick hair on his chest, his arms, his legs, his pits, his… Simmons makes another strangled noise and firmly looks at the man’s--Grif’s--face. Grif gives him a wolfish grin, teeth a little too sharp in a way that makes Simmons feel… squirmy. Too warm and restless. 

“Gah--” Grif says, and then grimaces and starts flexing his entire face into ridiculous expressions as he works his jaw and mouth and teeth and tongue, making nonsense noises like an actor warming up before a scene, like he’s relearning how to have a face. He shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, hair flying, and then stops with half of it still hanging in his face. “Good ‘nuff for you?” 

Despite now having two legs, two arms, and no tail, there’s still clearly no mistaking Grif for someone  _ normal. _ It’d probably still hold true even if Simmons somehow managed to wrestle pants onto him. 

Simmons, not knowing what to say, throws the next thing that’s closest to him. It’s another jacket. He’s standing next to the coat rack. 

“M’not putting that on,” Grif says. 

“You’re an idiot,” Simmons says, because someone should really inform him. 

“Come over here, fresh pup.” 

_ “Don’t  _ call me that.” Simmons gives him a scathing glare. Anger is a good way to distract himself from, say, nerves. He really should be closing the distance if he wants to-- do anything reckless, but it feels like his feet are nailed to the floor underneath him. “My name is Simmons.  _ Simm-ons.”  _

“Simmmmmons,” Grif says, dragging the name out in a way that Simmons can’t discern, if it’s genuine or mocking. “Come here. Or do you wanna do it on the floor. The couch smells of the most sex, so I thought that you’d like it most.” He wrinkles his nose. _ Mouth talking ugh (so deliberate, so much picking words, unnatural).  _

“Talking with your  _ mouth _ is unnatural? Really?” He takes a step closer to Grif just to make sure that he can see his incredulously raised eyebrows. Grif’s eyebrows are very thick in a way that make them easy to see even across the room, every slightest twitch and movement. 

_ Your human cubs have to spend _ years _ learning it. Wolf borns can talk (messy, distracted, stupid) right from day one.  _

Simmons imagines that it’s probably more concepts than words, even more so than Grif. The feeling of hunger or of cold along with a general feeling of distress, for example. Admittedly pretty useful, but still.  _ Not _ talking. “What a convincing argument.” He takes another step forward. 

_ You’d talk like this if you could too jealous insecure snippy defensive you  _ reek _ of it (so _ ha). 

Simmons scowls. He  _ does _ want to be able to communicate telepathically. So sue him! It was on Star Trek! 

“Doesn’t seem that cool, actually,” he says haughtily, taking another step closer and cocking a hip, chin raised. 

Grif snorts, unimpressed. What a gross man. A gross, naked man that looks like he could heft Simmons around like a sack of flour. 

… Not that that’s something he’s _ interested _ in or anything. 

He realizes that somehow, through all of the petty bickering, he’s managed to work up the courage to slowly inch his way close enough to Grif that he’s now within arms reach. He’s rooted to the floor again. All that needs to happen for him to close the distance and do--something--is to take a few more steps. Or for Grif to reel him the rest of the way in. 

Yes. _ Clearly, _ this is on Grif. Simmons glares at him impatiently, feeling hot and frustrated. 

_ Would think that Locus was depriving you with how you smell (amusement, teasing)  _ Grif notes.  _ If it weren’t for how the rest of the place smells.  _

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps like the lash of a whip, even though it isn’t exactly a far leap. 

Grif rolls his eyes at him, and then just-- shoves an image into his brain. Simmons sprawled out on the couch without clothes on, with Locus’ bulked draped over him, his long dark hair a curtain around them as he leaned down wetly kiss at his mouth, licking his way down his jaw to nibble--bite, really, without breaking skin--at his throat. It’s so sudden and feels so real that for a moment he swears he can feel the phantom sensation of it, lips on his own, on his throat, feverishly warm against his skin. For a moment, Simmons thinks that Grif  _ saw _ that somehow, that he was here to see it on his own despite all logic, or that he pulled the memory straight out of Simmons’ head, before he realizes that the image is hazy and lacking in details, that the freckles on his shoulders are wrong, that one of Locus’ scars is slightly out of position. 

(Not that he went out of his way to memorize Locus’ scars or anything.) 

The scene is imagined. Vividly, lovingly. 

_ Place smells like _ that Grif says.  _ And yet you’re  _ still  _ hungry for it. Fresh wolves stamina are insane no thanks not for me better him than me no biting stupid humans too much trouble to deal with but one afternoon sounds fun/doable.  _

“Stop picturing that  _ this instance!”  _ he hisses. “That was private!” 

_ Just a fantasy what’s the big deal (fake nonchalant oh so innocent I definitely don’t see what I’m doing wrong/teasing/riling up).  _

Simmons, without thinking, closes that last bit of feared distance. It’s less the seductive touch he was tentatively imagining and more like Simmons furiously tackling him down onto the couch with a shout. Grif does not react like Simmons is acting crazy, like he was implying that he wanted to fuck a moment ago and is now acting like a rabid hostile racoon. He laughs, and grabs at Simmons roughly and wrestles him underneath him. Simmons twists and struggles every step of the way, but at the end of it Grif still settles his significant weight on top of him and Simmons is undeniably, unavoidably _ pinned.  _

Heat _ surges _ inside of him, leaving him red faced and furiously embarrassed by himself. He hisses and wriggles, getting absolutely nowhere, but-- the way he’s getting nowhere no matter how much he tries is, is, it’s  _ something, _ and his blood is rushing and his heart is pounding and he’s starting to sweat but it’s _ just because _ he’s trying to heave Grif’s massive weight off of himself. Nothing else. 

Grif nudges a knee between Simmons’ legs, spreading them wide enough to rub his thigh against his straining erection. 

“Hhh,” Simmons wheezes, his mind a confused muddle of arousal and nerves and pure annoyed fury. 

_ Where are you fancy mouth words now huh  _ Grif purrs smugly, and then proceeds to nuzzle his entire face into Simmons’ neck the way Locus likes to do when they’re fucking. 

_ Locus. _ He groans, half horny out of his fucking skull and half distressed. “You sure he’s fine with this?” he asks uncertainly even as he grinds down onto Grif’s thigh, seeking out  _ pressure _ with  _ deep  _ frustration. 

Not that this is cheating not like they’ve got some sort of exclusive thing going on where Simmons having sex with someone else would count as an affair or anything it was all purely about, about convenience and need and having no choice and it was pity sex, charity sex, a whole lot of intense fucking charity sex so honestly Locus doesn’t have to be fine with Simmons having sex with another werewolf who cares if he cares? Not Simmons! Definitely not! It’s not fucking relevant! At all! 

_ Pack shares _ Grif repeats, like that’s all that needs to be said. And then he drags some of those oh so sharp teeth down his throat and Simmons caves. 

Simmons was born to make hasty, poorly thought out, bad decisions. 

For a moment he feels like he’s going to be able to sigh all of the tension out of his body for once in his fucking life, to be able to melt back into the cushions and go pliant and easy and just  _ enjoy. _ And then Grif sits back and up to roughly pull and yank at Simmons’ clothes like a jackass who doesn’t understand how a goddamned zipper works and he’s  _ popping the seams _ and he honestly almost kicks the man in the fucking face. But he is a restrained and mature adult and he just kicks him in the chest instead, shoving him away onto his back onto the other half of the couch. 

_ Ow! (offense/hurt/shock/rude!)  _

The flash of pain Simmons gets from Grif doesn’t feel  _ that _ bad. He’s just being a baby. He gets up onto his knees and glares down at him as he starts unzipping and unbuttoning his own goddamned pants on his own. He does a better job of it with one hand than Grif did with two. Grif glares up at him sulkily, and doesn’t lift a finger to try and lever himself back up. Lazy ass. 

Nice view, though, with him all sprawled out naked down in front of him. 

He guiltily snaps his eyes down to his hand, his ears burning. 

_ You can look (cute idiot who gets flustered over a dick in the middle of sex) _ Grif says, and Simmons darts his eyes back only long enough to confirm the amused grin that’s curling on Grif’s lips. It’s infuriating and, and-- he growls and almost pops the pants button right off. There’s just something about Grif that makes him want to howl about what a rude stupid asshole he is and then  _ kiss _ him. It’s utterly illogical, irrational, but so is this whole venture, so is this whole goddamned werewolf thing in general, what the fuck,  _ heats,  _ he’s going to have  _ heats, _ what even? 

Adult life is already so goddamn weird, this might as well happen. Simmons grabs the bottom of his shirt and yanks it up over his head in one rough motion, shaking it off his arm onto the floor somewhere. He’s too horny and angry to care about patiently folding things right now, even though his technique is incredibly impressive. Grif probably wouldn’t even care, the stupid nudist. Ugh, he’s so awful. Simmons leans down and tries his best to devour his mouth. Grif licks back eagerly, happily, but paws blindly at his pants at the same time. 

_ You forgot to take off the most important thing dumbass how is anyone supposed to properly rut you with all of this  _ stuff _ in the way why would you _ do _ this to yourself (bafflement/exasperation/want). _

Simmons is taken out at the kneecaps by indignation at  _ Grif  _ being exasperated by  _ Simmons,  _ which is probably what lets Grif haul Simmons around like a ragdoll and pull his jeans down to his knees with such clumsy force that Simmons outright yelps at the denim burn. 

_ “Grif!”  _

_ Therrrrre it is (finally my buried treasure my long promised prize my--) _

“Don’t wax poetic about my dick!” 

Grif _ licks _ at it. Not in a seductive or slow way, but like it’s an ice cream cone, or a lollipop. Like he’s curious about the taste. Simmons feels like a few of his synapses just short circuited and there’s now an electrical fire inside of his brain, like static electricity zapped its way straight past his defenses to go off inside the core of him to run down his spine. He involuntarily kicks out at nothing. He makes a horrible virginal nerd sound, something like, “Nnngah!” 

His eyes are wide and he’s heaving for breath and he’s  _ been blown before,  _ Locus has sucked his dick more times than he can count, what the fuck is wrong with him, why does he have to be so  _ loud.  _

_ Mmm _ Grif says contentedly. _ Fresh sweat salty tasty.  _

Then again, Locus never _ talked  _ during all of the sex. Especially while his mouth was--occupied. Oh, dear god. He’s going to die here, in the most mortifying way possible. At least Locus will probably just bury him out back and his family will never hear of this. They’d probably put it on his tombstone if they did. Here lies Richard Simmons Junior: he died of a boner related heart attack. 

They  _ had  _ included the humiliating details of his uncle’s death on his epitaph, after all. And grandmother had shown up to the funeral only to disinherit him post mortem during her speech. And all  _ he’d  _ done was die in San Francisco. 

Grif licks at his dick some more, savoring it, and Simmons hisses and moans and curses, feeling like he’s not being given enough air to breathe. He kicks and wriggles the rest of way out of his pants, and Grif bites down on his inner thigh as he apparently moves around too much for his liking. 

_ Stay still I’m not going to chase/hunt you easy slow meals are best.  _

Simmons does _ not _ like being associated with words like _ easy _ or  _ slow, _ even if Grif doesn’t seem to be deliberately insulting him just this once. 

“You ffffucking prick,” he wheezes, his thigh muscles twitching and jumping underneath Grif’s teeth. He’s looking down at Grif, and in the doing he can see how exaggerated his own breathing is, his stomach going concave on the inhales, ribs visible, dramatic. 

Grif releases Simmons’ flesh from the grip of his teeth, and licks at the red mark left behind as if to soothe it. A high, wavering noise leaves Simmons. 

_ Cuuuute good noises yelp louder bring in the rest of the pack let’s have a party.  _

How can he  _ say _ these kinds of things? What the fuck? And it’s honestly just unfair that Grif doesn’t have to shut up even when his mouth is busy.  _ Simmons _ doesn’t have that advantage. 

Grif swallows him down. Simmons looks at him, at those teeth so close to his dick, and he just stops breathing. He feels the opposite of a chill rush down his spine, a flooding of heat, and saliva pools in his mouth. 

Grif bobs his head, all careful sharp teeth and eager tongue and no hesitation and Simmons’ brain is leaking out of his ears, its gone up in smoke, its evaporated. He hitches his hips and he twitches helplessly like a fish on a hook, at his goddamn mercy. There is nothing Simmons can do to make this pressure go away, now. To make it mount and release. It’s all up to Grif. He moans, helpless and unable to think about anything but how much he  _ wants.  _

Grif is taking his sweet fucking time, careful not to choke, careful not to bite, lingering over the taste of him. Simmons is going to  _ scream.  _ He needs  _ more,  _ he needs  _ faster. _ When he opens his mouth, nothing that comes out resembles anything like a coherent sentence. 

Goddamnit god fucking damn it he really _ is _ going to die on this couch because Grif is lazy and cruel and Simmons feels like every single one of his nerves is strung as taught as a string on a violin, ready and desperate to snap. There’s so much-- there’s so  _ much _ inside of him and he’s desperate for it to crest already because until it does it’s just going to be an electric storm roiling inside of him, driving him crazy. He  _ needs _ it and he can’t even unclench his jaw enough to ask. 

Grif, slowly sliding his mouth up and down his dick. Simmons keeps forgetting to breathe for long stretches of time, each inhalation a conscious belated decision, hard fought for. Spots in his eyes. Heady spinning in his head. He _ needs.  _

_ More more more give me more put more on me swallow me whole make my head QUIET  _ (make  _ me) _

Grif stills. That’s  _ worse. _ Simmons clutches at the couch, frustration and desperation instead of blood flowing through his veins. 

_ No don’t don’t don’t stop keep going harder faster more don’t stop touching me don’t leave don’t you fucking dare I’ll kill/never forgive you (please).  _

Grif looks up at him. Pulls off to give him the  _ smuggest _ smirk in the history of lycanthropy. Simmons is breathless with rage and loss. 

_ Told you so (I’m right you’re wrong hah can’t wait to see your  _ face _ as it sinks in).  _

And then Grif takes his dick in hand and starts pumping it, hard and fast and rough and Simmons collapses back into the couch, eyes closing, back arching as he finally,  _ finally _ gets what he wants. 

The straining violin string that is his body snaps, and every single one of his muscles goes limp all at once. He spends a long time just gasping for air, feeling like his thoughts are a cloud that’s drifted out of his ears and into the air around him, floaty and intangible and distant, impossible to grasp. The sweat on his skin cools. 

_ My turn now? (impatient/hopeful/eager/I’ve been  _ good _ so nice so generous)  _

The thoughts appear in his head, and he doesn’t even process them. He’s still blinking dazedly up at the ceiling. 

_ Now? _

The door opens, a familiar scent that already permeates the cottage-- Simmons sluggishly turns his head to look. It’s Locus, shirtless and with a giant dead stag with its throat ripped out draped over his broad shoulders. Simmons is too wrung out to react. This seems like a perfectly expected state of being for Locus to be in. It fits. The only thing that isn’t really registering is that he sort of forgot that Locus even existed for a bit there beyond the scope of the annoyance and lust that Grif inspired so seemingly easily and now he’s back and he’s existing and he’s  _ here  _ and he’s standing still in the doorway looking at Simmons sprawled naked on the couch covered in his own come with Grif in between his legs. 

It’s such a cartoonishly nightmarish scene that Simmons is having trouble even comprehending it, even though the inevitable consequences of his actions were  _ pretty obvious.  _ Simmons is not good at parsing easily avoidable disaster scenarios. 

Locus blinks at them slowly, and then just as slowly (like he’s carefully disarming a bomb) turns around to walk away. 

The situation finally registers, and Simmons bolts upright so fast that he headbutts Grif right in the face. 

“Argh!” he yowls, hands flying to his own forehead. “Locus! Wait! This isn’t what it looks like!!” YES IT IS YOU IDIOT IT'S EXACTLY WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE. 

_ OW WHAT THE FUCK MEAN _ Grif radiates, clutching at his nose. Grif’s mood and Simmons’ afterglow is  _ thoroughly _ destroyed. 

Locus pauses, and then chucks the large dead stag in one casual heave of his arms onto the ground outside, turns back around, walks inside, and closes the door with only a quiet  _ click.  _

“Simmons,” he says in the same tone of voice he uses to ask for the salt or to say good morning or anything really. Locus has two tones: Locus-regular, and Locus-grudgingly-holding-onto-his-fraying-patience-and-sanity. “It’s okay. You can sleep with whoever you like. I don’t have a claim on you.” 

“You don’t?” 

_ Liar yes he does.  _

“Grif says you do!” 

“I can hear him as well, Simmons. I have  _ some _ claim on you. Just as you have some claim on me. But I don’t own you. This is fine. Really.” 

“... Really?” he asks uncertainly, doubtfully, voice cracking embarrassingly. He is not disappointed, he isn’t disappointed, no, nope it’s not like he  _ wanted _ for Locus to be mad or upset, that would (mean that he cared, that he was special) be crazy and petty and possessive and Simmons isn’t those things! At all!

“It’s good that you have options now,” he goes on. “You can choose who you want.” 

Simmons opens his mouth, closes it, blinks a bit, narrows his eyes and scrunches up his face as he thinks about what Locus just said. It doesn’t quite make sense. 

“I do… want… you…” he says. Locus looks at him. Simmons feels himself start to go blotchy and freezes where he sits. He’s got the horrible sensation that he just said the exact wrong thing in a typical Simmons-like master stroke of social grace. 

“It’s fine,” he repeats. 

Grif pokes him in the ribs, making Simmons yelp and snap a glare at him. 

_ Talk to him (properly). _

“I  _ am.”  _

_ Properly/naturally/real dumbass/idiot/fresh wolf (you’re being obtuse).  _

“You know the word obtuse?” 

Grif gives him a look like he’s being stupid and exasperating, and then he reaches out and lays a hand over Simmons’ mouth. Simmons flushes some more. 

_ Can’t lie like this only truth (he’ll understand if you talk like this)  _ he says. 

Simmons doesn’t know how. 

_ Yes you do  _ Grif says, and it isn’t encouragement or motivational. It feels like pure fact, like something he knows. He’s so casually confident that it doesn’t feel like pressure, crushing and ready for Simmons to disappoint. It feels real, like he’s being corrected. 

_ Oh didn’t realize I could didn’t know how did you know (suspicious are you hiding something from me?) _

_ There you go took you long enough (cute idiot, told you so, good fuck fixes a lot of things).  _

Smug is an infuriating look on Grif. He turns his focus to Locus who has an eyebrow raised. 

“Congratulations,” he says. 

“Thanks!” He perks up at the praise. Grif elbows him in the side and he scowls at him before clearing his throat, focusing. 

_ Don’t be mad are you mad at me (please don’t be mad)  _ he tries. 

Something in Locus’ shoulders softens. “I’m not mad at you.” 

“I-- I know, not like I was worried, um, that’s great!” 

Grif pokes him again to get his attention, rolls his eyes, and covers his mouth again. Simmons crosses his arms belligerently. 

_ I wasn’t trying to cheat that’s not what I want to do don’t want to be like that I just  _ want _ (are you upset?)  _

Something in his brows softens. “It’s different with wolves. You can be with whoever you like.” 

_ So you don’t care? (At all? About me?)  _

Something softens around his mouth. “I’m glad you’re happy.” 

_ I want for you to be happy too (you don’t want me?) _

Something softens in his eyes. He takes a few steps closer, and Simmons stops being scared about him suddenly leaving before Simmons is done talking. 

_ Are you happy? (I want for you to want me, I want you forever, you and your stupid hot friend, please?)  _

Locus stands in front of him, leans down, takes his jaw with one hand and tilts it up. Simmons goes along with it, practiced, and feels Locus’ lips on his. 

“Yes,” he says. “Alright.” 

_ Can someone finally touch me now (this is all very sweet but think about my poor dick)?  _

 

Some time later, Simmons realizes that he’s never noticed Locus talking the other way, the wolf way. When Grif (or Simmons) says something to him, he speaks back with his mouth. He hadn’t even spoken like that to Simmons when he’d been in his wolf form, the first day they’d met. 

“I didn’t want to startle you,” Locus says. 

“Okay, but what about now?” 

“I prefer speaking the human way. You tend to reveal more than you intend while speaking the other way.” 

“... You do?” 

“Grif isn’t just freakishly honest.” 

“--Wait, have _ I _ accidentally said anything--?” 

“A fox is trying to eat my kill, I have to go.” 

Grif rolls over, back in his wolf form and radiating self satisfaction. 

“... I’m sure I didn’t. I’d notice.” 

Grif sneezes. 


End file.
